


Mummy's Secret Recipe

by MsLadySmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 07:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13095195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLadySmith/pseuds/MsLadySmith
Summary: From the FB Writing Prompt: Office Christmas party at Scotland Yard





	Mummy's Secret Recipe

Greg leaned on the conference room table, watching the few staff members that had shown up mingle.  "This party is so dead..." he commented to Sally, who sipped at her punch.

"Yeah, boss.  But it's early yet - more people will show up."

"I doubt it.  The only people who show up are the poor saps like us, who don't have a family to spend time with." 

"Yeah, you're probably right." Sally nodded.  "Damn, the punch is crap.  Where did you get this?"

Greg grimaced.  "From the cafeteria downstairs."  He looked around furtively, and when the coast was clear, pulled a small flask from his jacket.  "Here, let me fix it for you," he grinned, adding a little whiskey to her cup.

Sally's eyes got wide.  "Boss... you can get in trouble for that... on company time..."

He raised an eyebrow.  "Who's gonna report it?" he grinned.

"Sure as hell won't be me," Sally grinned back, taking a sip.  “A definite improvement.”

Sally could almost hear the idea in Greg’s head, as a sly smirk spread across his face.  “Boss…” she warned half-heartedly.

“Cover me, Sally,” he murmured, moving closer to the punch bowl, as though he were serving himself another cup.  She moved to stand beside his shoulder, effectively hiding his actions from the others in the room as he emptied the flask into the punch bowl, and gave the punch a quick stir with the serving ladle, refilling his own cup.

“Shit, Greg… you must have been hell on wheels when you were younger…” Sally giggled.  

Greg took a sip of his punch innocently.  “Let’s just say I spent a few nights on the other side of the bars before I worked on this side,” he winked.

* * *

Greg sat at a table near the back of the room, watching some of the younger officers as they chatted and laughed.  “God, was I ever that young?” he mumbled to himself.

“I think so, Lestrade, but probably not that naïve…” Anderson chuckled, taking the seat next to Greg.  “Nice party,” he nodded.  “You make all those appetizers?”

“Very funny, Philip.  I was able to sweet talk Greta down in the cafeteria into a little catering job for me.”

Anderson looked at him, an eyebrow raised.  “Are we talking about the same Greta?  Or by ‘sweet talk’ do you mean ‘paid her 200 quid’?”

“I talked her down to 150,” Greg flashed a cheeky grin.  The men laughed comfortably.

“Great punch, by the way,” Anderson winked.  “It’s got that… something special…”

Greg grinned.  “Mummy’s secret recipe.”

“I’m sure.”

Both men turned when they heard the Chief Inspector’s voice as he entered the room.

“Sorry, Greg,” Anderson whispered.  “That’s my cue to make a break for it.”  And with that, Anderson vanished out a side door, leaving Greg to deal with the cranky DCI.

“Are you responsible for these festivities, Lestrade?”  The DCI asked gruffly.

Greg straightened.  “Yes, sir.  It’s tradition.  We always put together a little event for the officers who volunteer to work on Christmas Eve and Christmas.  It’s usually just the single folk who don’t have family nearby,” he explained.

The DCI grumbled.  “These people should be working.  How much did all this cost my department budget?” he looked around the room.

“Not a pound, sir.  All these decorations are mine.  My ex-wife loved decorating for Christmas, but when she left, she wanted to buy all new stuff, so I got the discards.  Since I live alone, I wasn’t up for decorating my flat… so I brought it all here.  At least someone can enjoy it.”

As the DCI walked over to the punch bowl, Greg had a sudden pang of regret for having spiked the punch.  “Can’t stand punch… nothing but colored sugar-water,” the DCI mumbled, as he reached for the carafe of coffee, much to Greg’s relief. 

The DCI poured himself a cup of the lukewarm coffee, and took one of the finger sandwiches.  “Well, carry on, then, Lestrade.  But I expect to get 8 hours of work out of everyone here.”

“Absolutely, sir.  And Merry Christmas, sir.”

“Hrmph,” was the DCI’s response, as he stalked out of the room.

* * *

As the party wound down, Greg started cleaning up, picking up paper plates and plastic cups left on the tables, when there was a light rapping on the door.  Greg turned to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway.  “Detective Sergeant Donovan told me I would find you here,” Mycroft said with a smile.  “Hosting your annual holiday soiree, I see.”

“I wasn’t expecting you, Mr. Holmes.  What can I do for you?” Greg asked.

“I originally came by to discuss a case with you, but find myself rather drawn to all this” Mycroft waved at the holiday decorations, “instead.  I rarely celebrate the holiday, aside from spending a tedious evening with my brother and my parents.”

“Well, that will never do,” Greg smiled, pouring the last of the punch into two more cups.  “At least share a drink with me,” he said, handing one of the cups to Mycroft. 

“I – I don’t drink punch… too much sugar…” Mycroft stammered, moving to set the cup on the table in front of him.

Greg looked at him sternly.  “Trust me.”  He raised his glass, his eyes never leaving Mycroft’s.

Mycroft frowned, and brought the cup to his lips.  As he took a sip, his eyes widened, and his face broke into a small smile. 

Greg finished his cup of punch, and grinned.  Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Just how much of this punch have you had, Gregory?” he asked quietly.

“Take me home and I’ll tell you all about it,” Greg’s eyes sparkled, a lascivious smile spreading across his face.

Mycroft returned the smile.  “My car is downstairs.”

 

And a Merry Christmas was had by all.


End file.
